“Paulette Barrow assured you that the charge would be filed.”
“She assured me that if she was the state attorney, she would file the charge. It would look very political if the attorney general were to override the local state attorney’s decision not to prosecute.”
“Then I’ll call the little prick myself,” he said.
“I wouldn’t do that, sir.”
“I want to know why this genius decided not to charge Charlotte Holmes.”
“You can’t just pick up the phone and bawl the guy out.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the same optics that made your lawyers put the kibosh on the victory tour. Whether it’s face-to-face meetings with electors in battleground states or dressing down the Leon County state attorney, you can’t be seen as strong-arming state officers to disrupt the Electoral College.”
“But I’m right, am I not? Charlotte Holmes is dead in the water. Felony charge—boom. She’s out of the Electoral College. The governor replaces her with someone who knows the definition of loyalty.”
“My understanding is that the problem lies with our friend Madeline Chisel.”
The president bristled. “That can’t be. Madeline’s a team player.”
“The state attorney asked Madeline to sign an affidavit under oath that the ammunition she found in Ms. Holmes’s desk in fact belonged to Charlotte Holmes. Madeline said she couldn’t do that.”
“What’s her problem?”
“Too many people coming and going from her office. Clients, staff, FedEx, UPS, Postmates, janitors, housekeeping, the pest-control company, the guy who waters the plants, and on and on. Madeline couldn’t swear under oath that no one went into Charlotte’s office and planted the ammo before Madeline cleaned out that desk.”
“Fine. Madeline swears now, the governor replaces Charlotte Holmes with a new elector, and then after the College votes for me on December fourteenth, Madeline can unswear. What’s the problem?”
Teague grimaced. “It’s under oath, sir.”
MacLeod turned on his sissy voice. “Ith unduh oath, thir,” he said, throwing in a few mocking gestures. Then he turned serious: “It’s words on paper!”
“Tell that to Sir Thomas More,” Teague muttered.
“Sir who?”
“Thomas More. Legal counselor to King Henry VIII. He was tried for treason and beheaded because he refused to swear an oath of supremacy recognizing the king as head of the Church of England. His famous last words were, ‘The king’s good servant, but God’s first.’ If you’d slogged through two years of religious studies in college like I did, you’d know who he is.”
“I know who he is,” said MacLeod, snarling. “You should have made it clear that you were talking about that Sir Thomas More.”
“My apologies, Mr. President.”
MacLeod sprang from his desk chair, crossed the room, and grabbed his golf club. Teague watched, his eyes wide with fright, as if the president might hit something—or someone. “‘My apologies,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘Excuse me, Mr. President,’” he said in a derisive tone. “Maybe King Henry had it right. It’s time for heads to roll around here.”
“Yes, sir. I have a few strategies in the works.”
“I need something big. Really big.”
“I can have a report to you in a couple of hours.”
“One hour. We have to fix this. Today, Oscar!”
“Yes, sir.”
The president took three deep breaths, in and out, the way his cardiologist had taught him. Then he assumed his putting stance, standing somewhat awkwardly over the ball, and lined up his shot.
“Sir Thomas More,” he muttered. “What kind of idiot doesn’t lie under oath to avoid a date with the executioner, anyway?”
He tapped the ball just right and sent it rolling toward the presidential seal, where it found the cup.
Chapter 17
On Friday morning, Jack and his client took a taxi to the courthouse for an emergency hearing.
“Walk straight into the building,” said Jack, as their taxi stopped at the curb. “Don’t stop, don’t look at the TV cameras, and, most of all, ignore the hecklers who are trying to get a rise out of you.”
“I’ll try,” said Charlotte.
A “never mind” e-mail had come from the state attorney late Thursday afternoon: “No criminal charges will be filed against Charlotte Holmes at this time.” Jack was on his way to the Tallahassee airport, ready to fly home to his family, when his client had called to tell him that she was a named defendant—not in a criminal case, but in a civil action. “I’ve been sued by the state of Florida,” she’d told him.
The battle lines were drawn, and Jack knew it would be anything but “civil.”
“You ready?” Jack asked his client. A crowd of demonstrators was outside the building, shielded from the sun by neat rows of trees that canopied the brick courtyard.
“Ready,” said Charlotte.
Jack was no stranger to angry mobs, once having been splattered with pig’s blood on the courthouse steps to drive home the point that the victim’s blood was as much on him as his client. This group of courthouse demonstrators, however, was evenly divided. Some cheered and applauded Charlotte as a hero, chanting “Five million matter!” It wasn’t nearly enough to drown out those who felt very differently.
“We’re praying for you, Charlotte!”
“Praying that you die before December fourteenth!”
It was hard not to feel threatened, even if it wasn’t technically a death threat.
Jack and his client pushed through the crowd and funneled through the revolving door. The demonstrators stayed outside, but their partisan shouting could be heard through the glass, which made even the short delay of a security clearance seem interminable. Reporters fired questions as they crossed the lobby. Jack didn’t use the words “no comment”—he never did—but he limited his remarks to benign references to “justice” and the protection of his client’s rights. He and Charlotte squeezed into an open elevator. The unwritten rule of crowded-elevator etiquette—silence—was broken by one especially persistent reporter who kept firing away until they reached the third floor. As they headed toward the courtroom, another set of elevator doors opened. Out stepped one lawyer after another. And another. And then another. It was like the proverbial stream of clowns piling out of a cramped Volkswagen Beetle, except that these were no clowns. They were Jack’s opposition.
“The attorney general is here?” Charlotte whispered.
Jack had expected no less. Florida Attorney General Paulette Barrow had made a national splash as a primetime speaker at the Republican National Convention. A win here could put her on the shortlist for MacLeod’s second-term cabinet, possibly even U.S. attorney general. With her were senior members of her office and a host of other lawyers and advisors. The media immediately flocked to the attorney general. Jack and his client separated themselves from the circus and entered the courtroom.
The gallery was packed with spectators who’d arrived early enough to snag a seat. Some no doubt supported Charlotte, while others detested her; either way, they respected courtroom decorum and watched in silence as Jack and his client proceeded down the center aisle and took their place at the table for the defense on the other side of the rail. Seated right behind them, having staked out prime viewing seats, were lawyers for Senator Stahl and the Democratic Party. They weren’t parties to the lawsuit, but they were certainly interested enough in the outcome to have lawyers at the ready. Lawyers for MacLeod and the Republican Party were similarly positioned behind the rail on the other side of the courtroom. A moment later the double doors in the back of the courtroom parted, and the attorney general began her journey down the center aisle, stopping to shake hands with everyone she knew or pretended to recognize.
“What does she think this is,” Charlotte whispered, “the State of the Union Address?”
The question conjured up the perfect image in Jack’s m
ind. Florida chooses its attorney general by statewide election, and at some point in the career of every elected AG, the transition from lawyer to politician became irreversible. Even courtroom appearances played out like staged political events. Jack was already thinking of ways to use that to his advantage.
Just as the attorney general and her team took their seats, a loud knock echoed through the courtroom, the door to Judge Lionel Martin’s chambers swung open, and the bailiff called the courtroom to order.
“All rise!”
The silver-haired judge ascended to the bench as all watched in respectful silence. Judge Martin was the chief judge for the five-county area surrounding Tallahassee, a former trial lawyer who used to love trying cases in the old Gadsden County courthouse, because lawyers could hang out in the restroom and listen to jurors deliberating on the other side of the wall. Two decades on the bench had earned him the reputation of a tireless worker who took only one vacation a year, when he and half the Tallahassee bar crossed the state line to Thomasville, Georgia, for quail-hunting season. Judge Martin wished everyone a good morning, allowed counsel to announce their appearance for the record, and then laid down the law for both lawyers and spectators.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s be honest: we have politicians and lunatics on both sides here today. And in some cases they are one and the same.”
Jack liked him already.
“Now, let’s be really honest,” the judge continued. “Most folks love or hate the Electoral College based on which way it cuts for their candidate. But we’re not here to decide if there should be an Electoral College. That decision was made two hundred fifty years ago by the Founding Fathers. The only issue before this court today is this: Is Charlotte Holmes required by law to vote for Republican candidate Malcolm MacLeod when the Electoral College convenes on December the fourteenth?”
The judge looked at Jack, and then at the attorney general. “That’s the long and short of it, Counsel. I want no grandstanding, no political speeches. General Barrow, let me hear the state of Florida’s position first.”
“Thank you, Judge,” said Barrow, and as she approached the lectern, she shot a quick look at Charlotte that was anything but an innocent glance. Barrow was generally adored by men in Tallahassee but had a terrible reputation for the way she treated other women. The look Barrow had just thrown Jack’s client seemed to say something on the order of “I am not your girlfriend.”
“Your Honor,” she began, “when you became a judge, you swore an oath to uphold your office. When I became attorney general, I swore an oath. When President MacLeod was inaugurated as president four years ago, he swore an oath. All of us are bound to uphold the oaths we have taken.
“Before Governor Mulvane certified Charlotte Holmes as one of twenty-nine Republican electors, Ms. Holmes swore an oath. She swore that if Florida went Republican in the November election, she would vote for the Republican candidate at the meeting of the Electoral College. Does that oath mean anything? Not to Ms. Holmes. She has publicly announced her intention to vote for Senator Stahl. This court must order Ms. Holmes to uphold her oath and vote as she promised to vote. It’s that simple.”
The attorney general returned to her seat. Jack could scarcely hide his surprise. A legal argument devoid of self-serving political rhetoric was the last thing he’d expected from Barrow.
Judge Martin swung his gaze toward Jack. “Mr. Swyteck? What say you?”
Jack had prepared a lengthy presentation, having anticipated the need to rebut a host of incendiary arguments that the attorney general had chosen to ignore. Jack jettisoned the outline and responded in kind—short and to the point.
“Breach of oath is a crime under Florida law,” said Jack. “As of this moment, no crime has been committed. If and when Ms. Holmes votes for Senator Stahl at the meeting of the Electoral College in December, she can be prosecuted for breaking her promise to vote for President MacLeod. She understands the consequences, and she is willing to accept them. The Florida Legislature does not dictate how electors under the United States Constitution must vote. With all due respect, a Florida state court judge has no power to tell an elector how to vote. To borrow the attorney general’s phrase, ‘It’s that simple.’”
Jack returned to his seat. Judge Martin leaned back in his leather chair, thinking, and then spoke.
“Every day in this courtroom, witnesses raise their right hand and swear an oath to tell the truth. Far too often, what follows is a stream of lies. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I’m troubled by a world in which a sworn oath means nothing.”
“The state of Florida is equally troubled,” said the attorney general, egging him on.
The judge leaned forward and looked straight at Jack. “Nonetheless, I believe Mr. Swyteck is right.”
It took the attorney general a moment to untie her tongue. “Judge, this is a mockery. Ms. Holmes stated at her press conference that she can’t vote for President MacLeod because, in her words, ‘truth matters.’ Doesn’t an oath matter?”
“Your Honor, we don’t live in a monarchy,” said Jack. “In fact, we fought a war over that. It violates the Constitution for any state legislature to force a member of the Electoral College to swear an oath of allegiance to a specific candidate as a qualification for serving as an elector.”
“Mr. Swyteck, I’m not going to try and read the minds of the Founding Fathers. And, General Barrow, the irony you point out is not lost on me. All I can do is follow the law.” The judge then turned his gaze to Jack’s client. “Ms. Holmes, breach of oath is a third-degree felony. You could go to jail. Proceed with your eyes wide open. But proceed—and vote—as you will.”
Jack was shocked to get an immediate ruling from the bench, and, judging from the firmness of Charlotte’s grip on his elbow, she was equally surprised.
“That’s my decision,” said the judge, taking the gavel in hand. “So unless the state of Florida has any other business before this court, we are—”
“There’s one other matter,” said Barrow, barely getting a word in before adjournment.
“What is it, General?” the judge asked.
“It’s our position that, like all state officials, electors may be removed if they have committed misfeasance or malfeasance, or are otherwise unfit for office.”
“Judge, there’s no evidence of any misconduct by my client,” said Jack.
“All we’re asking for is an opportunity to present that evidence,” said Barrow. “That’s basic fairness.”
“Judge, the attorney general is simply unhappy with the court’s ruling and is flying by the seat of her pants to find a way around it.”
“Mr. Swyteck, lawyers fly by the seat of their pants so often in this courtroom that I should hang an honorary pair of britches from the ceiling.”
There were a few chuckles from the gallery, which the judge seemed to appreciate.
“For the record, I am not flying by the seat of my pants,” said Barrow. “By accepting Mr. Swyteck’s argument, this court has embraced Alexander Hamilton’s view that, regardless of the results of the general election, it is the job of the Electoral College to protect the presidency from one who is unfit.”
“Hamilton, huh. I must have slept through that part of the musical,” the judge said, which drew more laughter.
“It wasn’t in the musical,” said Barrow. “It’s in Federalist Papers, number Sixty-Eight. If electors are going to decide who’s fit to be president, they themselves should be fit to hold office.”
“What is the state of Florida asking me to do?” the judge asked.
“We request an immediate hearing to present evidence and call witnesses in support of our position that Ms. Holmes should be removed as elector for good cause.”
“Judge, I object—”
“Noted,” said the judge, shutting Jack down. “But this court intends to be fair to both sides. If the attorney general wants a hearing, she can have a hearing. We will reconvene on Monday morning at nine a.m.
Ms. Barrow, have your witnesses here and ready to testify.”
At the risk of annoying the judge, Jack had to speak up. “Testify as to what? My client has a right to know what she’s accused of doing.”
“This isn’t a criminal proceeding,” said the judge. “She’s accused of misfeasance and malfeasance.”
“And unfitness for office,” said Barrow, her reassertion of the “fitness” requirement making it clear that she had something in mind.
“Misfeasance, malfeasance, and unfitness,” said the judge. “There you go, Mr. Swyteck. That’s what your client is accused of. See y’all Monday morning. We’re adjourned.”
A crack of his gavel followed. On the bailiff’s command, all rose and watched in silence as Judge Martin disappeared into his chambers. The paneled door closed with a thud, and the packed courtroom sprang into action. Some journalists raced from the courtroom to report the breaking news. Others rushed to the rail to get the reaction from counsel. They were calling for the attorney general, eager to hear her next move, but she stepped around the lectern and stopped at the defense table.
“Mr. Swyteck, I want you to know that the lines of communication are open between now and Monday morning, in case your client decides this fight isn’t worth it.”
“It’s worth it,” said Charlotte.
“No, it isn’t,” she said, technically addressing Jack, though her words were clearly for Charlotte’s ears. “Every elector in the country will be watching this hearing, and when it’s over, not a single one will decide that following your lead is worth it. That’s not a threat; it’s the nature of a fitness hearing. Even if you win, you lose.”
Barrow turned and walked to the rail, where reporters were eager to speak to her, each elbowing out the other for the strategic spot.
“How am I unfit to be an elector?” Charlotte whispered. “What do they think they’re going to do on Monday?”
The Big Lie Page 9